Page 35 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, something flashed in his expression. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but she saw it all the same. Not amusement, not quite, but something that softened the severity she had grown accustomed to.
“I see,” he said.
The simplicity of the response did nothing to steady her. If anything, it made her more aware of the space between them, of the way the morning light now filled the room, of the quiet that seemed to press closer rather than recede.
She reached for her fork, if only to give her hands something to do. “There is something I wish to discuss with you,” she said, forcing her thoughts into more practical lines. “Now that we are in London.”
Maxwell inclined his head slightly, signaling for her to continue.
“The Season,” she said. “There will be events we are expected to attend. Dinners, musicales, assemblies. I imagine it would be… noticed if we were absent from all of them.”
“It would,” he agreed.
“And we shall attend them,” she continued, a note of quiet determination entering her voice.
His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained even. “Not all of them.”
Arabella set her fork down, her brows lifting. “You do not intend to participate in the Season?”
“I intend to fulfill what is required,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“That is not the same thing,” she returned.
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a moment, the familiar tension threatened to return, the edges of their conversation sharpening as they had before. Yet as Arabella held his gaze, she found herself pausing, considering him in a way she had not allowed herself to do until now.
“You do not enjoy such gatherings,” she said slowly.
“I do not.”
“And I do,” she replied.
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it settled something in her. These were not opposing forces meant to collide at every turn. They were, she realized, merely different.
“Then we shall choose,” she said after a moment. “Those that matter most. Those that cannot be avoided. And perhaps,” she added, a small hint of mischief returning, “one or two that I refuse to miss.”
Maxwell regarded her for a long moment, as though weighing the proposal.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We will attend those that are necessary. And a select few of your choosing.”
Arabella felt something ease within her, a quiet satisfaction that had nothing to do with winning and everything to do with being heard.
“I believe that is a reasonable arrangement,” she said.
“So do I.”
The tension that had hovered between them softened, not entirely gone, but altered into something less rigid, more uncertain.
It was only then that Arabella noticed the quiet, steady sound that had gone unremarked until now.
She glanced down.
Poppet, who had abandoned the desk at some point during their conversation, now lay curled comfortably in Maxwell’s lap, her small body rising and falling with each contented breath. One of his hands rested absently against her back, his fingers moving in slow, unconscious strokes through her fur.
